GOAL!

According to Genesis 11 1-9 sometime before the Common Era, the whole earth had one language until, in the words of the Old Testament the Lord said, “Let us go down and confuse their language, so that they may not understand one another’s speech.” And if we believe it, that was that. Universal language gone. Humankind was dispersed over the face of the earth and had to create a multitude of new languages to understand each other.

In 1870s, L. L. Zamenhof, a Russian ophthalmologist, invented Esperanto, which he intended to be a universal language. It is suggested that today there may be at most 100,000 Esperanto speakers worldwide. Set against the 7 billion population of the world it could hardly claim to be universal. So that’s two attempts at a universal language that have failed.

So let’s look at a universal language that is successful. Third time lucky. A language that a very great majority of the 7 billion can and do speak on a daily basis. A language that can express elation and deflation. A language that offers extreme highs and desperate lows. A language that offers at its best poetry and at its worst doggerel. This is the language of football.

Where do we learn this language? Well like any good language it starts in the cradle whereby babes in arms are decked out in pyjamas emblazoned with the colours of mummy and daddy’s favourite football team. The seeds are planted already in boys and girls. Girls, because the women’s game is now just as important as its counterpart. Women’s football has brought a new energy, a new excitement and a new style. As kids move through nursery and primary school, they quickly pick up the phraseology of the game and by the time they have become young adults they are fluent.

It’s easy to engender discussion in footballspeak. Enter a room and ask a question. “What about the Reds then?” “Are you a Blue?” “What about the game last night?” And they are just for starters. The dialogue soon progresses to offside, penalties and VAR blunders. Individuals are named. “I am pleased for Marcus. Two goals for Barca.” ”Grealish was always a star.” “20 million quid for him. He’s bloody rubbish.” And so on well into the night.

In my poem “Football Club” I have tried to capture all these feelings and more. I wanted to write something nonpartisan that would be universally inclusive, cut out rivalry and try and ensure that just for once everyone was singing from the same, in this case, poem sheet, so to speak.

Nevertheless it’s a poem about the Blackpools, the Burys and the Blackburns. Those good Lancashire clubs that have carried the baton for so long and have been subject to the ups and downs, ins and outs, the delights of world class players and sometimes the ravages of poor management, financial disaster and owners who didn’t give a shit. The curses and insults that were hurled at the Oystons have indeed added rich and colourful language to the football lexicon.

A friend of mine took me to Charlton Athletic’s ground “The Valley” and did precisely what the poem says. He almost had tears in his eyes as he did it. Another truth that is reflected in the poem is exactly what football has done for towns like Fleetwood and Burnley where these teams have “punched far above their weight” and brought pride to the town.

The poem, of course, is addressed to the all-inclusive you but it’s really about me. One last thing about the poem itself before you read it. It’s the closed I get to audience participation. I explain that I would like the audience to join in I have a large card that says “GOAL!” and I hold it up and ask the assembled company to shout the word out when I wave the card. After a couple of goes they get it.

I often watch “Soccer Saturday” on Sky where they have a panel of pundits, Paul Merson et al, who provide commentaries on a match they can see on their screen. These guys banter between themselves and sometimes they are more entertaining than the football itself. When a goal is scored they leap up and shout “GOAL!” and the word appears in digital glory on screens behind them. So this is what I am trying to emulate in the poem. The word “GOAL!” pops up as a kind of chorus and those listening are asked to join in by shouting it out. That’s the idea anyway. You don’t need to shout it out as you read the poem. Well you can if you want to.

Football Club

When you tell them who you support,
with smirks and smiles,
and big belly laughs of derision,
“Why don’t you change?” they say.
Well it’s not that easy is it?

On Saturday you go to the ground,
sit where your dad said his dad sat before him.
He yelled at bad decisions by the ref,
welled up at league defeats and relegation
and swelled when the ball went in – GOAL!
And so do you.

From the time when you were a boy
the names and faces of previous players
hang as autographed photos in your memory,
stirring your heart and flood lighting your imagination.
Keeper to sweeper to winger to striker- GOAL!
And you can remember then all.

At Wembley collecting the trophy,
One hundred thousand voices sang in unison.
One hundred thousand sets of arms lifted the cup.
And somehow back home the cup lifted the town,
shining and bursting with pride-GOAL!
And so were you.

It’s not always cup finals and league titles.
Football clubs fortunes fluctuate like shares.
Glory days come and go.
Relegation and promotion. Go down come up.
Such is the score of the beautiful game-GOAL!
And you know it too.

But on match days’ banners fly.
Chants and expectations build up the faithful
Boys become men out on the turf.
Men become boys back on the terrace.
Forever this team- forever loyal - GOAL!
And so are you.

When you tell them who you support,
with smirks and smiles,
and big belly laughs of derision,
“Why don’t you change?” they say.
Well it’s not that easy is it?
You can’t take the grain out of the wood.

The last line is probably the most important line of all. This has been known to chuck up some surprising revelations. One of the most important scientists in the country, who often took the stand with Boris during COVID, supports Boston United. I have a friend who is a retired Prison Governor who went on marches to protest about the owners of Oldham Athletic. Delia Smith, somebody who was reckoned at one time to have sold more books than anyone one else in the history of the world, pours a great deal of her wealth into Norwich City. You go to funerals these days where attendees are often asked to wear a team shirt that the person who has passed away supported. It could be suggested and often confirmed that some people, perhaps many people, are ingrained from the moment they are born.

Just in case you are wondering. I’m ingrained with Bolton Wanderers through and through until my final whistle.

Bill Allison